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Another Rubber Game; Free Johan

By omniality
June 21, 2009 //
0

Reasons for my confusing the Tampa Bay Rays and the Toronto Blue Jays in my post on Friday afternoon:

  1. It’s interleague play and that doesn’t usually interest me in the slightest, save for the potential for gains in the standings.  That the Mets have been unable to gain any decent ground given the Phillies’ struggles DOES interest me.  That they haven’t lost much ground either just makes the whole thing silly.
  2. Look at the teams’ names: (a) Tampa Bay Rays; (b) Toronto Blue Jays.  TBRays, TBJays.  They should’ve left the “Devil” in their name; I could’ve made a far funnier and more egregious error and thought the Mets were playing the New Jersey Devils, or the Charlie Daniels Band, or Bill O’Reilly.
  3. I was blinded by hate for my usual compatriots, who used the lame excuses of their mother’s sixtieth birthday and their best friend’s wedding to leave me with the task of filling their seats.  (This rage would also cause me to sit in the wrong section for a good forty-five minutes before the game started, marveling at how much more of the outfield I could see.)
  4. I was blinded by hate for the friend who DID join me, and doesn’t believe there’s anything redeemable about We Are Marshall.  C’mon.  Rousing cheer.  Ian McShane.  Matthew McConaghuey sporting a ridiculous accent and ‘do.  What’s not to like? 
  5. I was blinded by hate for ALL THE OTHER REGULARS in my section who didn’t show up that night.  It was just me and the older couple who sit in the row ahead and two seats over.  And besides my shouting “Don’t bunt!” whenever Luis Castillo comes up to the plate, my antics appear to be wearing on the older guy’s better half.
  6. Brian Schneider’s three-run blast got hit so far that it traveled back in time and hit me in the head.  These things happen.
  7. I knew I’d be seeing Pat Burrell, who played for the Phillies last year, who themselves played the Blue Jays in the previous set at Citizen’s Bank Park.  Transitive property, Q.E.D., ergo yo mama.
  8. I’d been up ’til 3 AM the night before, prepping for a long day at work followed by a night at the ball park followed by a long morning of work followed by Father’s Day.
  9. I miss Carlos Delgado so much that I’d hoped the Blue Jays would be in attendance, just so he could hit four more home runs in one game against the Rays, who would absolutely be there.
  10. Speaking of Delgado, 9/25/2003: 9+2+5+2+0+0+3=21.  2+1=3, which is how many runs the Rays scored in their loss to the Mets on June 19, 2009 (6/19/2009: 6+1+9+2+0+0+9=27; 2+7=9 divided by 3 equals THREE), and how many runs they beat the Mets by on June 20, 2009 (6/20/2009: 6+2+0+2+0+0+9=19; 9 divided by one is nine, and divided by 3 equals THREE).  Isn’t that WEIRD?

But seriously; I kid the numerologists.

Sights from the game against the Tampa Bay Rays (W, 5-3), below.  Even Teflon Tim Redding takes the train to the game!

Teflon Tim.jpgPepsi Porch.jpgDaniel Murphy.jpg

Sonnanstine Zipper.jpg
Schneider Runs The Bases.jpg
Pat Burrell.jpg
Mets Win.jpg
My thanks to Ed who showed up and paid far too much for two tickets that had no shot at being able to see the two run double Parnell let slip late.  I’ll be in the seats next week for the game against the Yankees.  I double-checked.  It’s absolutely against the Yankees.

**

I’ll say it.  I don’t think it’s going to happen.  Ever.

Santana Scrim.jpgBut in appeasement of those who, like me, are superstitious, I’ll only say that, and give you the picture, above, and let you think back to Saturday’s game (L, 3-1).  Get it now?  You’re familiar with that feeling.  You’ll think about it for another day or so, and then file it away with John Maine and Nelson Figueroa and all the Tom Seavers and, tangentially, David Goddamn Cone, and Dwight Goddamn Gooden, and Nolan Goddamn Ryan times too many to count without crying.  Among others.

I missed this particular one myself; I had to get up early for work, and was so tired by the time I got back home that I dropped into bed and didn’t wake up until 7:30 in the evening.  My personal record this week was a wash so I gave myself a break on Saturday’s.  Frankly, I thought it would be rained out.

But think about this: are we entitled to one?  We have Johan and we’ve had Cone and Ryan and Seaver.  If memory serves, the Padres’ cupboards are bare, too.  Hell, the last time the Chicago Cubs won the World Series, Charles Fairbanks was bemoaning Teddy Roosevelt’s backing of William Howard Taft for the presidency.  Do you even know who Charles Fairbanks WAS?  I didn’t until about a minute ago.

What are we, as fans, owed besides a comfortable, safe place to watch a game, a competent crew to broadcast the proceedings whenever we can’t or don’t want to make it, a front office that doesn’t treat us like idiots, and a team that goes out and plays hard every day?  If the Mets can get all that right–and I get the sense that the front office sometimes/often forgets how smart this fan base is, and I could kill Jose Reyes for his occasional loafing–then we should find ourselves proud of our boys.  Success will follow, assuredly.

I want one as bad as the next Mets guy, but I think I’m about done thinking about it every time I walk into the park, and every time I see a 1-2-3 first inning.  And second inning.  And–goddamn it Dioner Navarro! 

Ugh.  Fine.

Today is Father’s Day.  I am late for several things.  Hope those father-son duos going out to Citi have some good weather; I will be watching on a 42-inch plasma at the parents’ homestead.

*My thanks to
Greg Prince of Faith And Fear In Flushing for the link re: Metstock.  Greg, I owe you an email and an offer of crappy hi-res images.

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La-Di-Da-Di, We Like To Party

By omniality
June 19, 2009 //
1

I’m 0 for 2 in Mets events that I view away from home, yet away from Citi Field. 

David Wright is 0 for 9 with an RBI in that span, but he gets paid to go to these things (ball games). 

I just spend money at local establishments.

Going Home.jpgAs stated in the previous post, Metstock was yesterday: food, fun, and fans at Two Boots Pizzeria on Grand Street.  I’d already been to every other Two Boots Pizzeria in New York City, so this was a double treat for me.  I can get fired up about pizza. 

For my money, the best pizza around is at Peppino’s on Third Avenue and Seventy-Seventh Street in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, but in that case I’m a homer, and I appreciate a great neighborhood place.  They actually LOWERED their prices recently, in the wake of the Great Recession.  Who does that?!

…Apparently Phil Rizzuto called; he wants his tangents back.

Fearless Leader.jpgBordering the windows at Two Boots are amazing paintings of New York sports heroes.  This one, of Keith Hernandez, I found quite inspiring.  Later, I’d feel a near-irrepressible urge to fly a Zero into Camden Yards.  But that would have been an inappropriate reaction to the events in the bottom of the ninth inning (L, 5-4), and chances are the Mets will need Aubrey Huff sooner rather than later.

Hubie Doobie Doo.jpgThat poster (behind Pick Me Up Some Mets! blogger Zoe Rice’s head) is amazing, and further example of how this particular Two Boots caters to the clientele.  I will someday come back here and offer them $5,000 for this work of Hubie Brooks art.  They will reject me out of hand.  I will be disappointed.

Readers.jpgReaders at the event were Jon Springer of Mets By The Numbers, Greg Prince of Faith And Fear In Flushing, and Skyhorse editor Mark Weinstein filling in for Stanley Cohen, author of A Magic Summer.

Gratuitous link.

If you read back on the blog, you can probably piece together that I was sentient and ambulatory during the Mets ’86 World Championship, but not so much that I could ever put down recollections of that time or even of the kind Greg Prince has of 1969.  Being a fan of the Mets, as I’ve stated before, is like eating to me.  I don’t remember the dinner I had in late October when I was four.  I’m sure I enjoyed it.  Inductive reasoning would suggest it was pizza; my dad loves it.  But we’re back at pizza again.  I should just fly a fighter jet into myself, and call it a day.

Jon Springer Speaks.jpgMy point is, I sat and drank Brooklyn Lager and marveled at the descriptions of jubilant chaos, after Mr. Springer regaled us with the story of Jeff McKnight, who now has become my favorite goateed Met, if only for the glasses which he wears in his publicity photo (visit Mets By The Numbers and find the “McKnightmare” link at top).  I also ate pizza (why so spicy, Two Boots?  Why?) and watched a game unfold.  It’s heartening to be with a group of fans who will listen as an event goes on in their presence, but will also clap and cheer as an event is televised before them.  Made me wish the Ziegfeld was packed with these folks instead of traffic-beaters the other night, but maybe they understood too well what I spoke about a few days ago: baseball’s played outside.  A stadium or stadium-like atmosphere cannot be replicated in a movie theater; instead one’s options are either to sit in a bar-like place (like the Two Boots on Grand) or at home, or at the damned ball park.  Very well.  I’m sufficiently down on my luck with regard to the Ziggy and gatherings with strangers that I might cut the bar out altogether, and stick with home or Second Home.

But this was fun.

We watched the game and moaned at the Orioles scoring.  We cheered the Mets scoring, as Alex Cora did twice, including this play (after which it got LOUD):

Cora Beats The Tag.jpgThat hazy representation is somewhat purposeful; I don’t want to land on the wrong side of MLB’s or SNY’s boilerplate.  Suffice it to say that’s Alex Cora weaving ’round Matt Wieters, who dropped the off-target Howitzer throw from right.

Greg Prince Reads.jpgHere’s something, and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of anyone’s Ornery or Glance Askance (God, I should’ve been beaten up more in junior high): Mr. Prince (featured, left) has an admittedly funny chapter devoted to Yankees fans, and it’s not complimentary.

I have Yankees fan friends, and Mr. Prince does, certainly, and we all do because they’re everywhere and nearly unavoidable.  (Sarah Palin can see Russia from her house, but can she see the South Bronx?  Does she see David Letterman waving from the box seats?  He’s giving you the finger, Sarah, and ninety-nine point nine percent of me is sure you deserve it, with an oh-point-one percent margin of error.)

Many Yankees fans, including my friends–from time to time–are obnoxious.  It does stem from undeserved entitlement; it does speak poorly of the organization, which could perhaps get off its high horse about history and tradition and realize that the schtick, like its last World Series title, is getting old.

But I got the sense that the prevailing attitude last night was to hate the Yankees because they’re the Yankees and that’s just that.  They’ve won championships and feel entitled and Willie Randolph was a drip and that stadium of theirs can just go take a bath and how dare they take David Cone and have him accomplish THAT and oh-for-the-love-of-God-please-make-it-stop.  I am not of the camp that hates the Yankees success as much as he revels in their failures.&
nbsp; My Yankees friends are not like that regarding the Mets, and I have to dismiss any such feeling as a generational thing or misguided adoration of the game.  With respect.

Had the Mets won tonight’s game against Baltimore AND the Yankees had lost, I’d’ve texted my friend currently working up at Tanglewood.  “3-0? To the Nats? Wha’ happen’, Boli didn’t kick in yet?” And he’d’ve probably texted back. “Quiet, son. Remember 15-0, vs. Johan.”  This is rivalry.  When the Yankees are playing the Chicago White Sox, I could give a damn unless someone on the Yankees makes a miraculous play.  I’ll cheer that.  I’m a fan of baseball.  I’m a fan of the baseball I watch in front of me.  (By the way, cannot STAND scoreboard watchers at Mets games who erupt into a “YANKEES SUCK!” cheer when they see the Blue Jays are giving them a thumping.  My response is reflexive at this point: “THEY’RE NOT HERE!”  Atrocious.)

And I’m a fan of New York City.  If New York stands at the top of the baseball world, then the world makes sense.  If the series were between the Padres and the Yankees, I’m rooting for the Yankees.  Not obnoxiously, not with my Mets cap or jersey on.  But I’m at a bar for one of those games, and I’m rooting for the home team.  My opinion is valid, and if you think it misguided, feel free to try and convince me otherwise.  But I loves me gloating rights over another, lesser city (and they’re all lesser cities).  I loves me a parade. La-di-da-di, we like to party. 

Now, if what floats your boat is specifically hating on the Yankees, that’s fine.  I enjoy talking smack about Premio sausage patties (as opposed to the links, which are top notch).  I can lay into Uwe Boll with glee.  I don’t particularly enjoy three-drawer lateral filing cabinets: they’re too tall to make a seat and too short to be useful on any reasonable scale.  But if it’s Yankees hatred because they’re not the Mets and they’re crowding you with their obnoxiousness, chill out.  They’re due for a slide into terminal mediocrity, and the town will clear of the knuckleheads.  Fear not.

Chat With Fans.jpgFans stayed until the game was over, which was heartening.  The place was more crowded than this during the reading, but I suspect this was because there were a number of Skyhorse employees who had come to show their support of the house.  Commendable.  But Pearly McNecklaceson who was sitting beside me and jabbering about how cool it is to be in charge of interns, was it necessary to thwack me with your knock-off bag at EVERY opportunity?  I was wrong: it should be you that gets the fighter jet to the face.

Skyhorse Editor.jpgAll in all, a great time.  Fun to see people, whose words I’d been reading, reading their words.  I was tickled by Ms. Rice’s covering of her eyes as Frankie R. loaded the bases.  Something my sister would do.  And as I left the loss and proceeded down the–I’m sorry–AWFUL-smelling Grand Street, my switch flipped and I was in prep-for-Citi mode (will be in attendance tonight for Fernando Nieve’s tilt against the Toronto Blue Jays). (Update: I must’ve been high when I wrote this, and never mind the fact that I don’t smoke: they played the Rays.)

“Great,” I thought to myself.  “More birds.”  (Update: I probably cared more about getting the joke out than getting the team right.)  Perhaps I felt better recalling that this is still interleague and Andy Sonnanstine would have to bat.  He’s 2-for-8 so far this year.  That HAS to be his high-water mark.

*The only link I didn’t supply is one that I have in the past, to CBS Sports’ MLB Players Page.

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Frankie Ate The Brown Acid

By omniality
June 19, 2009 //
0

If you’re coming to this blog for late-breaking updates on the Mets game, you’re coming to the wrong place.

I was at Faith And Fear In Flushing’s METSTOCK event tonight at Two Boots Pizza on Grand Street this evening.  Watched the Mets game with them, and Mets By The Numbers, And Pick Me Up Some Mets, and Dana Brand.  I have photos.  Tomorrow, tomorrow.

Frankie Rodriguez couldn’t get his first pitch in place for a strike.  They’d dip low and then he’d be behind in the count.  Regardless of how much the Mets SHOULD have scored, this loss is on him.  Everybody gets one.

Gee, thanks, Spidey.

More tomorrow.  Sleep now.  Huzzah.

Goddamn it, Frankie.

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“Schhhecond schhhtanza…,” or How To Wear Your Rally Cap

By comedyliteracy
June 18, 2009 //
0

Are you superstitious?  I am.

Do you have routines because you’re superstitious?  I do.

Do you fear for your psychological well-being sometimes, as a result of this blind devotion to superstitious routines?  I do.

Would you ever, EVER, tell anyone about those routines, for fear of them permanently and catastrophically losing their power?  I wouldn’t.

With that, here’s the Ziegfeld Theater, which is where I watched the Mets play the Baltimore Orioles (L, 6-4):

Outside.jpg

I can’t tell you whether, upon office departure for the Ziegfeld, I began any kind of superstitious routine.  I can only tell you that last year, any game I attended at Shea in which the Mets emerged victorious had the coincidental concurrence of my enjoying one beer every three innings.

The days I didn’t do this, they lost.  One day in particular–July 25, 2008–saw them lose to the Cardinals in an interminable number of extra innings.  Brandon Knight’s 4-run first inning start.  Eighty-dollar field level seats on the third base line, for my sister and I.  A horrible head cold (on the same day I quit my previous job).  Fernando Tatis bringing the Mets back from the brink twice.  Aaron Heilman actually holding a tie past the point where she (my sister) absolutely had to go home, and I either had to leave and barely make the LIRR back to Long Beach and the rented beach house with The Wife, or sleep in Shea’s parking lot. 

–And that’s another thing, which I won’t put into a parenthetical: my sister had to go home during the 13th inning of that game because she had to pack for a flight that was leaving from JFK four hours later.  If my head didn’t feel as though it was going to explode, or if I’d brought my Brooklyn house keys, I’d’ve stayed to watch Heilman give up the tie.  There was no way to make it so I could stay.  There was no way for my sister to stay.  We had absolutely no choice that wouldn’t have cost us untold sums of money or our health.  IN THOSE CIRCUMSTANCES, it’s okay to leave a game early.  If you feel a need to beat the traffic, head yourself off at the pass and DON’T COME.  The wave will go on without you.–

I got to the Ziegfeld.  Met a friend there, subbing for aforementioned sibling.  Sat in the back, because I felt there was some good juice in the back, but not on the left side center, because that’s where I watched Marlon get robbed.  Took some photos from this vantage point, because I’m not a reporter and until or if and so forth, I’ll be comfortable in my documenting of live events.

Bud Harrelson.jpgBud Harrelson and Ed Kranepool were brought up early on, to talk about the ’69 Miracle Mets.  That was a treat, though at the outset a guy thought it charming to shout “Cesspool!” at Ed.  This is the same charity case who, despite the Mets being down 6-4 with a frame left, proceeded to chant “T shirt!” at the hurlers of the Pepsi Party Patrol.  AND HE ALREADY HAD A SHIRT.  Moron.  When I felt the sober urge to chant “Ball game!” in response to his loserdom, I had a sense the night was lost.  I chanted it anyway.

Speaking of anyway, here’s Ed:

Ed Kranepool.jpg

Still using the Gillette Foamy.  Nice to see.

So I avoided the taste of the creature, so to speak, having had a near-epic time of it the night before, but still chanted and cheered.  Bobby Parnell seemed in need of the slow clap with one out and the prey at a ball and two strikes, so I indulged, even though you just don’t do it with just one out.  I’ll fight anyone who says you do.

The Crowd.jpgThe place was not terribly packed.  Good seats were available in prime spots; I just like to mutter and curse away from children, and there were gaggles of ’em wherever I’d want to be.  On the other hand, I also wanted to be with Mr. Met, so I braved the crew and had my subbing friend take the shot.  He’s six feet seven inches tall (not Mr. Met, the friend), and Mr. Met was animated, and it was dark.  Now that I’m done equivocating:

Mascot.jpg I DON’T avail myself of the Gillette Foamy.  Sensitive skin; no need to raise my batting average.

There were loud cheers for Sheffield’s home run, and the requisite laughs for Keith Hernandez’s tangent of the game: this particular one related to the Ziegfeld, where last Keith saw Lawrence of Arabia and met David Lean (but not Alec Guinness; he couldn’t make it).  Keith also kept his program for the movie, from when he was a boy, and got some autographs.  Mr. Hernandez, I had no idea you were so sentimental.

There was the seventh-inning stretch:

Seventh Inning Stretch.jpgAnd Mr. Met has the choreography down COLD.  And the Mets didn’t skimp on the “Lazy Mary,” either, which was heartwarming.

But still the crowd.  Boy, I don’t know.  When Aubrey Huff hit the two-run homer past Eutaw and into the downtown Potomac twenty minutes away (I still don’t want him on the team), people got up and out of their seats, never to return.  There was the attempt at rally caps, but the kids were wearing them with the brims facing front.  Not to the side, not to the back.  So I followed along gamely.  Look where it got me.

I blame the loss squarely on the ten year-old in the Jets T-shirt, with his rally cap on in ENTIRELY the wrong fashion.

It’d be impossible to complete a superstitious routine while watching a game in a movie theater.  But then again, I may or may not even have one, so perhaps that ten year-old is safe from my fearsome, vengeful wrath.  These are constructs I may or may not build around the game itself, which is devoid of interest in whatever the hell I may or may not do.  I firmly believe this.

I also firmly believe in giving people hell if they don’t do what they should do, which is pay at least SOME attention to the game.  Which is why, in the late innings of that game against the St. Louis Cardinals, I demanded from eight rows away that David Wright put his goddamn glove on.  This after seeming to forget the ball was about to be put in play and remaining flat on his feet.  He did, nodded at me, and I shouted a quick “Thank yo
u!”

Even that parasite shouting for more swag left before the ninth.  For that, I shouted “Thank you!” too.

I wonder what kind of pain I’ll make myself to everyone tonight at Two Boots.  We’ll see.

*By the way, there’s a thing tonight at Two Boots off Grand Street in Manhattan, hosted by the fine folks at Faith And Fear In Flushing.  For more on the event, click here.  And if you go here, you can read up on the rally cap with absolutely no idea as to the veracity of the material presented.  Enjoy.

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Clean Up On Aisle 5

By omniality
June 18, 2009 //
0

If Mike Pelfrey gave David Wright a pep talk at some point
before Wright’s fifth appearance at the plate, it didn’t work. Sometimes
turnabout’s not always fair play, Pelf. If you licked your fingers and worked
the hide as you did it, then double whammy on you.

The Mets dropping one to the Baltimore Orioles (L, 6-4) doesn’t so much bother
me; fill in the usual injury excuses and add the fact that Toronto shook down
Philadelphia for six runs (net), and the fact that the team is three games off
the pace is not terrible to take.

What IS abysmal is to find the team, again, in a favorable bases loaded
position, and grab only one run off a walk-in. As I’ve stated, I’m not a stats
guy, so I don’t know why Fernando Tatis got to jump in instead of Fernando
Martinez, save that he’s shown ability to hit with runners in scoring position
(when he has a regular bench role), and hit two grand slams in a row once upon
a time.  Jerry Manuel makes a lineup change with bases loaded and one out,
and of course there was a double play.  Fine.

Where was David Wright, though? His average before the game suggested that out
of five times at the plate, he’d get almost two hits.  (Perhaps he’d’ve
had to share the second one with Carlos Beltran.) He didn’t work the count
when it appeared that would help. I thought that toss to first base to try and
get out… Nick Markakis? …wasn’t the sharpest.  Is this the case of
“heavy is the head”? Or “just one of those days”?  As
Homer Simpson once wailed: “We always have one good kid and one bad kid.
Why can’t BOTH our kids be good?”

It does feel as though there are only two Mets players on the field on any
given night, and I won’t even mention the pitcher for fear of having to
increase the size of his name in my tag cloud, for consistency’s sake. Let’s
just say that the man’s pitched six games and must, by now, have eighteen
middling, yawning, forgettable no-decisions. I used to call him The
Executioner, because I think I’m clever. Now I think I’ll call him Teflon Tim,
with a heavy dollop of annoyance.

No, let’s say the first player was Daniel Murphy, breaking out of his skid to
bring his average from “SUUUCK” to “suck.” For the home
run, the second guy should be Gary Sheffield. That’s a little cheap, though,
and no offense to Gary. But in 24 Orioles outs, Carlos Beltran had a full third
of them; Alex Cora also made a RIDICULOUS off-balance slurve of a shovel throw
to Castillo to catch Melvin Mora in the bottom of the seventh. Who knows what
kind of lead the Mets also couldn’t have overcome if he hadn’t made that play?
I’d best find it on web gems.  (UPDATE:
it’s #2, behind Brewers’ Bill Hall.  Web
Gems seems to enjoy the hurl from third-to-first; those aren’t all that awesome
to me.  Double plays, crazy throws,
off-balance stuff: those are gems.)

David Wright bats clean-up and goes 0 for 5.  Who gives the captain the
pep talk after that? Probably the guy whose absence everyone (including Keith
Hernandez) seemed to single out yesterday was the impetus for Wright taking a
firmer hand of the reins. A hint: he probably made some after-action notes in
his marble Mead about how the surgeon approached his torn labrum.

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Ready To Go

By omniality
June 17, 2009 //
0

See what I did there?  With the titles?  Har.

I’m getting the sense that this blog is prep for my eventual transformation into Andy Rooney.  So be it.  This one’s on Mets baseball, indoors.

I can find plenty who will watch a ball game with me at a bar.  To some, I live at the figurative end of the earth, so watching at home with others is rare, but it happens.  Everyone is all hot to trot to actually GO to a game until it comes time to pay the piper, or get on the train, or both.

The phenomenon of going to a movie theater, to watch a ball game, that one could just as easily watch at home or a bar: this is a different beast altogether. 

People are intrigued, but confused.  But people are so easily confused.  People who go have a good time, but it can feel a little hokey; much like a grade-school assembly.  By the by, I’ll date myself by offering that, because my particular elementary school was woefully overcrowded, they couldn’t let us all out in the yard for recess at once.  So we went out in shifts; those who were inside watched ’80s era Alvin And The Chipmunks videos on the auditorium’s big screen.  (“My Pierre Cardin SOCKS!”)

Baseball’s an outside sport, unless you live in Toronto or lived in Montreal or live in Seattle during the seventeen months a year that it rains out there or live in Milwaukee when it’s hailing cheese… I guess there are a lot of retractable-roof stadiums and parks out there; too many to keep this joke going, at any rate.  Point is, baseball’s an outside sport.  The effect of watching inside can be a little deleterious.

The first time I attended a “Mets At The Movies” event, the technology was a little wonky and the electro-organ music was a bit forced.  It was a Phillies game in late summer 2007, so the heat was on literally and figuratively, and we all had a good time, I guess, until “Marvelous” Marlon Anderson made that headfirst slide at second and was called out to end the game, at which point, everyone was sad and livid and just about done. 

I didn’t go in 2008 because watching a Mets-Braves game or whatever it was at the Clearview Chelsea–your standard cineplex–didn’t appeal to me. 

Tonight, I’m watching the Mets play the Orioles, at the Ziegfeld.  And the Ziegfeld is a magical place for me.  I’ve had some of the best movie-going experiences of my life there.  Including watching Pleasantville with The Wife, back in high school (now further dating myself).

And yet… inside?  On a screen?  Sure, a huge screen; sure, getting the chance to laugh along with folks as Keith says something random to Gary; sure, Pepsi T-shirt whatever; sure, beer in a cushy seat.  Baseball was not meant to be this way.  I go because it’s the Mets, and it’s an experience, but it won’t really be like baseball.

I’d like a drive-in baseball game, if we’re going to continue going this route.  Or follow the example of HBO’s Bryant Park series or the Hudson River RiverFlicks series, and hold these things out in the open air, at a park or pier.  There has to be a way, logistically, to still charge an obscene $5 “service fee” on top of the $12 movie ticket.  If it rains, we’ll be S.O.L., but that’s baseball.

“That’s baseball.”  I guess I’m also practicing my Joe Morgan.

And speaking of Joes, I’m about ten seconds from going back home and watching that Artie Lange thing from Joe Buck Live.  Everyone keeps talking about it, and I thought we were done talking about Artie Lange.  Frankly, I thought he’d Belushied himself years ago before I heard he was going to be on.

(People should not be down on the phrase “Belushied himself.”  I know tons about the man; he’d laugh at it, I’m sure.)

At any rate, Artie Lange’s alive, Joe Buck got shanghaied, baseball should be outdoors but tonight it’s the Ziegfeld for me.  Time to warm up for my Tim Redding chant: “Redd-ing! Redd-ing! Redd-ing! Je-sus! Dear God! Stike zone! Strike zone!  Strike zone!”

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Fired Up

By omniality
June 16, 2009 //
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“You know the Times says the air’s bad down here.”
“Yeah?  Well —- the Times; I read the Post.”
–From 25th Hour

I am a fan of many things.  No one can call me anhedonic, based solely on the thrill I get from describing various recipes for grilled burgers.  I am a fan of most Spike Lee movies, and the red-rimmed bug-eyed work of Barry Pepper (you may remember him as the sniper in Saving Private Ryan), and when they got together for 25th Hour, whoo boy.

Mostly, however, I’m a fan of being fired up.  I LOVE to be fired up, which is difficult because there’s often the chance that getting fired up might mean coming down hard on a loss.  It’s hard to be a fan for this reason.  It’s great to be a fan for the opposite reason; you might just float down on a win.

I’m not looking to spec’ out a battle royale between the Times and the Post; but Barry Pepper’s comment was what rang in my head when I read an article in the Times this morning about the irregulars coming in to keep the Mets afloat, then saw the back of the Post’s edition while on the subway.  Plenty of blogosphere reports today re: the “Save Our Season” message; note that exhortation shortens to “S.O.S.,” and No don’t tell me they made the Mets logo the “O” gosh that’s so clever.

I don’t care how sophisticated your sports reporting is; if your front page that day boils Iranian election trauma down to the phrase “Turban Warfare,” and you send a clown to Albany in the midst of procedural Senate turmoil, I will laugh at you plenty, but take next to nothing you say seriously.  At this point I’m using the Daily News for movie timetables.

The difference between the Times and the Post highlights the difference in most fans: some are wild about the fact that the Mets are three games above .500 with the equivalent of the Lower East Ghananian All-Stars out there; some are panicked that we’ll never again climb onto the mountaintop and see the Promised Land.  Or is it get to the Promised Land and climb up to the mountain there?  Who knows.  They want a trade.  NOW NOW NOW.

(Lower East Ghanania doesn’t exist, and if they did, I’d doubt they’d have an All-Star team in ANYTHING.)

So with Jerry Manuel coming up on a year of gainful employment as a headliner, and Willie Randolph spending Month Whatever on the bench in Milwaukee, are we screwed or are we waiting patiently to be saved?  Are we either; are we both; are we neither?  I specifically do not think there is an answer.  I’m not trying to be flip about it.  I mean, specifically, that it is not a question that can be answered.

Because even if the Mets were fine, there’d be problems.  And in these current problems, there are Herculean bright spots.  That shouldn’t take the joy or blah out of fandom.  Fandom’s like eating; I don’t know a soul who isn’t a fan of SOMETHING.  You have to do it.  And sometimes you’ll roll down to Frankie’s 17 on Clinton Street and tear into a delicious plate of homemade gnocci and sausage, and take that down with a glorious glass of white.  And sometimes you’ll have no choice but to stop into the McDonald’s outside Ramapo, scarf a Big Mac, and regret the hell out of it when you’re still twenty miles away from the next rest stop.

I don’t mean to put a pin in everybody’s fun by deconstructing fandom, either.  Quite the opposite.  I want everyone to be fired up, all the time.  Just understand that the other guy might be just as fired up in the opposite direction, and that’s okay.  You’re on Clinton Street with coin in your pocket; they’re in Ramapo hoping there’s some Pepto tabs that haven’t been destroyed in the glove compartment.  Or vice versa.

Only time will make fools of those who thought one way or the other (this is where I bring it back to 25th Hour; OF COURSE the air was bad down there–are you KIDDING?!), and in the meantime, there’s life to live baseball to be played.

Tonight it’s Big Pelf versus this region’s version of the Birds.  Why are there so many birds in baseball, anyway?  Cardinals, Blue Jays, Orioles?  Un-im-pressed.

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Not John Maine

By omniality
June 15, 2009 //
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On occasion, Metsblog.com does something straight-up funny.  Earlier today, their notes on the Mets game versus Baltimore on Wednesday read thusly:

Date: Wed., June 17 
Time: 7:05 pm
Mets: Not John Maine
Orioles: Koji Uehara
Where: Camden Yards

Setting aside the fact that the Baltimore Orioles appear to be starting a guy who may bear some relation to the communications officer of the Enterprise (I know, I know: Uhura, Uehara; Swahili, Japanese), the idea of the pitcher being “Not John Maine” tickled me.

Not for nothing, but Not John Maine could be Johan Santana or Roy Halladay or Zach Greinke.  Not John Maine could also be Chien-Ming Wang circa 2009 or Victor Zambrano circa whenever with the Mets or that redheaded guy from My Boys, who got tagged hard by the Cubs in an episode at the end of this past season.

Hell, not John Maine could’ve been Kris Benson, except, you know. 

(By the way, Kris Benson’s now a long reliever for the Texas Rangers [had to look that up].  By the way, Google image results for the search term “Kris Benson” brings up one image with Kris in the background and a whole heapin’ load of Anna Benson images.  By the way, I’m not complaining about that.)

Point is, by this evening it had been decided that the part of Not John Maine would be played on Wednesday by Tim “The Executioner” Redding.  Tim had recently played the role of Not Oliver Perez after coming off the disabled list. 

And, y’know, while he was on the disabled list, the part of Not Tim Redding had been played, not too badly, by Livan Hernandez.  Who beat out Timmy, and Freddy Garcia himself, for the role of Not Freddy Garcia (previously known as the role of Not Pedro Martinez/Not Orlando Hernandez).  And, in fact, John Maine and Livan Hernandez were swapped in the rotation for the Subway Series, to give Omar Minaya and the Braintrust the chance to bring up Fernando “The Double Executioner” Nieve.

So really, Tim Redding is playing the part of Not Livan Hernandez, who played the part of Not John Maine, but if we look at the starting rotation as was presented on Opening Day, Tim Redding in at number three means he’s playing the part of Not Oliver Perez (again).  We can forgive Metsblog for forgetting that Oliver Perez existed; we can thank them and wish we had that kind of selective amnesia.

(You will learn quickly that I am not a fan of Oliver Perez.  I could give a damn about his upside.)

But most of all, we can forgive Metsblog for having a hard time keeping all of the above straight.  Consider the nightmare that would ensue if one tried to diagram all that, and you would see the humor, too.  This rotation’s a mess:

  1. Johan Santana
  2. Mike Pelfrey
  3. Tim Redding
  4. Livan Hernandez
  5. Fernando Nieve

Uh… huh…

*Let’s do a little backseat Monday morning armchair Sunday driving:

I fault Perez’s bloated contract first and foremost, though I also fault Carlos Delgado’s option and Luis Castillo’s contract and all the talk about how at each point, the Mets front office had a reasonable case to make for each.  Nay, nein, and nyet; there are always possibilities, to bring it back to Star Trek, but you limit those opportunities when you commit $30.5M in a season to a past-prime infielder who squares to bunt on 0 and 2 and can’t catch a pop-up, a slugging first baseman whose hip I could hear ticking from the nosebleeds, and a left-handed pitcher with a near-terminal case of the Mondays.

Orlando Hudson is a serviceable guy with four more home runs than Luis Castillo.  He’s also making half as much and has just as many Gold Gloves, and his last is half as old as Castillo’s.  I have little to say against Carlos Delgado; I was convinced he’d get to 500 home runs before Gary Sheffield, bum hip or no.  But $8M, by cursory observation, would have gotten us Hudson and Randy Wolf (two more wins than Oliver Perez), and left us $22.5M to buy two more of each.  Or any other more reasonable combinations of hitters and pitchers and sluggers.  Oy.

In any event, we’re here now, which is the phrase I imagine keeps Omar Minaya in smiles and butterscotch candies (which are from the devil).  Complaining will only get a new GM, and I try not to concern myself with front office business, unless it’s good for a chuckle.  Today, when scratching the surface of a comment such as “Not John Maine,” it absolutely is good for a chuckle.  Not John Maine.

I’m not John Maine.  I throw right-handed and I think Jennifer Aniston’s hair is pretty, too.  I do crossword puzzles sometimes, and if I tried real hard I bet I could hit a home run before Mike Pelfrey could.  Why not me?  Why can’t me?  I’ll pack his lunch and take Koji Uehara to school.

Hell: shave his beard and Randy Wolf looks a LITTLE bit like Kris Benson.  You have to squint.

*Salary whatnots were researched on CBS Sports’ MLB Players Page.

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It begins.

By omniality
June 15, 2009 //
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Of starting this blog I will only say this: I hope I can keep various defunct presences on the web straight.  We’ll see.

Now then:

I should’ve paid attention in high school when certain friends showed a talent for remembering statistics, and cracking jokes.  See, I’m a guy who enjoys being outside or at least near fresh air on moody summer days such as these, and I thought to myself on my way back from a sugar run that had I paid attention to the stat minders, I’d’ve learned how to mind stats myself, and parlayed that ability and a decent wit into a job as a sports writer.  I could then be near a field or on a bus or plane on my way to a field today.

Sadly, I didn’t pay attention, and that didn’t happen.

By way of inelegant segue, watching baseball for me is a window to a literal and figurative field I envy both for its grand stage and sense of community.  I’ve been fortunate enough to bear witness to some late-breaking history: Gary Sheffield’s 500th home run, Johan Santana’s 100th win; and have had the pleasure of introducing the game to several people.  But man, do I want to get on or near that field.

Except for this past weekend.  Keep this past weekend.

Rather than rehash the atrocity that was Friday night and the horrible, horrible mayhem that was Sunday afternoon, I’d like to offer some (perhaps overly) hopeful words:

  • Billy Wagner’s rehab is progressing nicely.  I trust he’s seeking redemption, and should be back the split-second there’s any chance of Brian Stokes getting more playing time.
  • There’s not been a whiff of surgery talk regarding Jose Reyes.  I’ll take that as a minor victory.
  • Carlos Delgado will be a novelty in the batter’s box if he keeps his goatee shaved.
  • Neil Diamond and his hateful repertoire appear to have been banned from Citi Field.  For the time being.
  • I have no clue where Oliver Perez is, and you should love that as much as I.

There will be more on each of these points as the days and weeks and months progress.

Actually, let me say one thing about Friday night, versus the Yankees (June 12, L 9-8).

I haven’t seen the play.  Or maybe it should be The Play, unless Initial Caps are Intended Only For Awesome Things, such as Endy’s Catch (which is, gratefully and phenomenally, the near sole-owner of the term The Catch [in Mets circles, anyway]).  In any event, I haven’t seen it.  I returned home after watching The Taking Of Pelham 1-2-3, and swore I wasn’t going to watch a bit of the game, after the toll the Phillies series took on me.

But in between watching DVR’ed repeats of The X-Files and avoiding Kent Jones’s shtick on Rachel Maddow’s program (I know he’s a nice guy, but I can’t handle him or his voice), I flipped over to the game for a few minutes at a time.  I know on the whole I was missing a wild ride.  But in addition to the Phillies-addled time I’d had in the days prior, my wife (My Wife? The Wife? The Wife.) was coming into town for the weekend.  It was time to let one go.

She arrived I guess around when the Mets were sending Frankie R. to the mound to wrap it up.  She asked me the score; I was already in bed and said I didn’t know.  I checked my Blackberry as she was brushing her teeth.  And there you go.

Yet I still have not seen The Play.  I was spared the inundation of replays by dint of a trip out to Butler, NJ for a birthday in a VFW hall–random–and cocktails and pizza afterward with The Wife.  I was nowhere near a TV at any point that Saturday.  And PIX spared me a replay of The Play yesterday.  Probably because nearly every time the Yankees hit a ball, it was to the outfield, and not anywhere near Luis Castillo.

So I haven’t seen The Play.  At this point, it’s an endurance test.  How long can I last without seeing it?  Think of this: I was–also random–in a hot tub when Sean Green walked in that run against the Phillies in May.  I was in Loge at Shea in ’07, when Oliver Perez walked in three runs against the Marlins in the first game of that last weekend series.  I’ve cheered Jeff Conine in my lifetime.  Considering all the other awful and pathetic things I’ve witnessed, maybe I can let this one go?

Or is the true result of die hard fandom the masochistic big nut bar that comes from subjecting oneself to such debilitating crapulence? 

You parse that sentence; I’ll think about it.

More, of course, later.

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He Circles The Wagons

By omniality
June 6, 2009 //
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If you’re a fan of Mets-based writing for MLBlogs, check out some of these characters:

Pick Me Up Some Mets!    
Author Zoe Rice is peppy, and she’s started in with the video now, which can only mean we’re due for a grab not unlike The Catch, while she’s there to record it. Here’s hoping.

Noble Thoughts    
The Mets MLB Pro Blog.

Perfect Pitch    
The Metropolitan Opera’s second oboist; I understand they may let her wear the batting gloves when she gets first chair.

Mets-merized    
A Jersey-based Mets season ticket holder, who should be commended for coming to 2009 games from out-of-state.    

M.T.’s Blogger    
Matt’s focus is mainly the Mets, but he’ll write about whatever’s noteworthy.

AKmets12    
A collector. I know how I got warning track dirt, but I should ask how Alex managed.

The 1 Constant    
I like that photo of Bobby Valentine, too.
  
Mets Blog 2009    
Mets writing from (generally) the home of the Durham Bulls.

**This list will be updated, but by no means regularly.  If you find a good Mets-based MLBlog, let me know about it by writing to omniality [at] gmail [dot] com.

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